


and right in the centre of all that unpleasantness and hostility, we can be found as well (undersea family restaurant).

by faucer



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Brother/Brother Incest, Incest, M/M, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Sex, Protective Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Sibling Incest, Uncaring parents, Unhappy Childhood, brotherly love but it's too much love and they have sex also, guest appearance of a slightly younger lieutenant hank anderson, hurt for comfort? sorta?, it's twin/twin incest can i make it more obvious?, no beta we die like stupids, paranormal stuff, poetic description of cruel acts, psych au, psych nines, they have a fucking filthy rich family like.... yes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27497263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faucer/pseuds/faucer
Summary: in a dark hushed room they play a one-thousand times rehearsed drama."you'll be happy being forever seen by everyone as the grounding object of the gifted child, a mere accessory?""if that means being your lover in private, then yes"nearing their lips, rustling sheets, the sound of their kiss as the prelude of the second act."i don't want you to sacrifice more than what you have already""and i don't want you to do that either""i never did""you never told, that's different".RK1700 human AU where RK900 is a psychic able to feel the energy of an object by touch and connor devoted his life on learning how to be the sole contact in the whole world that makes him feel happiness.
Relationships: Connor/Upgraded Connor | RK900, Rk1700
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	and right in the centre of all that unpleasantness and hostility, we can be found as well (undersea family restaurant).

**Author's Note:**

> i saw a couple of @/Tic_ally's tweets about human psych nines RK1700 AU and for a whole month i could not think about anything else therefore i decided to make it everyone else's problem with this fic. coincidentally i delayed posting it bc i still can't find a title i like, not even this one lol i guess that's karma serves me right? anyway. dedicated to @/JeanneRK bc she supported me when i wanted to delete it all :'(  
> also it's in-game RK900's birthday now? i think? wohoo!! hurray for the birthday bot!

“it’s fine.” connor murmurs, despite no need to, since the space is almost entirely soundproof. a black, long, extended rolls royce, phantom model. quite the expensive toy, nines thought, as he had browsed the customization catalogue, mouth pursued close in focus, skimming the digital pages of the tablet, ticking the options one after one. his father, cigar in hand, content for once that his son had taken an interest in luxury items, finally putting to good use the piles of money wasting away in his bank account, was sitting on the leather chair opposite him, speaking meaningless things with the salesman. contrary to what the head of the family believed, however, the automobile wasn’t anything but the umpteenth unwanted birthday gift.  
he simply had come to the understanding that if privacy was the sole thing he couldn’t buy, then, a car with tinted dark windows and a sumptuous screen dividing the passenger seats and the driver’s, would have to do. “you’ll be fine.” connor continues, all the tenderness of the world in his voice. “i’m here.” the tires come to a stop. and nines sighs. his right ungloved hand is still tightly interlaced together with connor’s, who, sensing his younger brother’s uneasiness, gives it a light reassuring squeeze. grayish eyes wander, surrendering to the conclusion that they have, indeed, arrived at destination. a hum and with his other free palm he reaches to cup connor’s face, nearing their lips in a longing kiss, leaving both of them in a deafening silence. after, the only faint sound that can be heard is nines’ caress, his thumb drawing invisible gentle lines on the other’s cheek, then, slowly, in a defeated manner, drifting to his neck, the collarbone, and, ultimately, reluctantly, leave. “i’ll be there with you.” the suicide doors open.

it’s a knife. rusty with blood. he’s seen the pictures many times, while reading the newspaper on the big case, certain he’d be called, but his stomach still knots and bile threatens to rise to his gullet. homicide. the balled-up fists betray his nervous trembling. without the protection of the soft cloth, he tentatively outstretches his nude hand, grazing the blade. and immediately he’s glued to it. his pupils dilate, his gaze fixes on nothing, watching ahead without any focus. his body contracts, jaw clenched tight, fingers shaking imperceptibly, the veins slithering through his knuckles coiling like a spring ready to jump back, the skin on his digits beginning to paint white. he desperately wants to step back but the force of his visions impedes it.  
it’s raw, the pain he feels, seizing his chest, almost abandoning him with no air in his lungs; there’s red, blood, a lot of it. violet, resentment. then red again, vengeance. black, the abyss. white lacks, and it means no regret. it’s heavy, this murder. it’s a fleeting observation, probably the only one he’s able to form before being engrossed in the flurry of events playing in front of him:  
a crescendo of quivering huffs rings between his ears for multiple seconds. someone. they’re talking. a lament chanted over and over again. jumbled nonsense, mostly. but he searches for the provenience, directs there his focus and, slowly, words commence to be clearer. the voice has the same otherworldly echo they all have, somewhat ghastly, somewhat distinctly human.  
**_‘and i hold out my weapon.’_ ** the tone is drunken with power, berserk, difficult to listen to without shivering. **_‘both fear and desire.’_ ** if initially he couldn’t quite pinpoint what was off about it, he can, now. **_‘and i don’t know which one is right.’_ ** this is absolutely not an accident. it was premeditated. **_‘and i straddle his fat belly.’_ ** a surge of anger runs up his body, like hot oil suddenly fueling a fire, helping it grow, burn everything on its path. he’s unintentionally agape, but no noise comes out. **_‘full of the things he’s eaten from me.’_ ** his heart picks up the pace and he starts getting dizzy. normally it happens when the session is close to its end, when his mind can’t bear anymore the interferences of another soul. a lot has passed since he encountered such coarse emotions. he’s not prepared. actually, if he had guessed that the ordinary killing of an old rich man could have been surrounded by this abnormal amount of spitted venom, he would have certainly asked connor’s help in keeping him grounded. presently, cognitive will on the other side, it’s too late to call for him. **_‘and i cut it open like a boar.’_ ** another phrase, burdening his spine as it would be to carry a boulder, strenuous over his pounding brain as one of those disturbing industrial noise concerts **_‘it stinks, because there’s nothing good in him.’_ ** although, rationally, he’s aware it’s just a sensation, he worries his legs will give out. that he’ll fall. not physically, but worse, mentally. that he’ll fall into the pit of horror and scarred flesh, into the wounded hunger that’s the ricocheting bullet of this killer, banging against every crevice of his black and white silhouette **_‘and therefore nothing good can come out of him either.’_ ** another outburst, but this time it’s desperation, no, not the type after a tragedy, not the mourn of a mistake, all but that, it’s pure, unblemished exasperation, it’s catharsis. the last action, it’s the stabbing blow! **_‘bowels flushing out, organs gushing.’_ ** the unpleasant smell of shit and iron hits him quickly. he’s never been hunting, but he’s seen his father’s friends boasting while cutting fur, the sharpness ruining every fibre of the muscles, agonizing animals already dead on the hall’s concrete, he imagines there was the same odour as of now; he fainted that time. **_‘i let him bleed on my pants.’_ ** his tongue rebels against him, making gagging necessary, he’s about to puke. it’s everywhere now, crimson liquid spilling up to his ankles, seeping into him. he can’t bear it any longer, he wants connor. he wants connor. connor. connor, connor, connor – _connor_ . his connor. his wonderful, gentle, ever so dear connor. he wants– no, rather _needs_ his connor. having him this distant it’s hard to benefit even from a crumble of his good energy. **_‘staining the fabric enveloping my legs.’_ ** he would very much like to freak out, lose his composure, to give in, to be comforted, hugged and told that he won’t have to do any of these things again. to just– surrender, for once. but he’s been doing this for years, and he subtly knows he won’t be able to stop any time soon. and for this reason he has to remind himself that he’s matured, not the scared little kid he used to be. and dissimilarly to when he was a child he now always has something to calm his nerves with him. a ring. the ring that connor wore and imbued with warm, soft, infinite care. the ring that connor gifted him. a simple band of metallic deep cerulean, wide enough to snugly cover where his phalange connects with the rest of his hand. not only the panacea to his curse but also the secret promise of their shared affection, connor had said, placing it on nines’ vena amoris; blue as the shimmer of his irises, cobalt as the ‘co’ of connor in the periodic table, both of them engraved, cast in the same place, forever. **_‘if he thinks, in his last moments, that any part of me, my skin, my nails_ ** **_—_ ** **_are gonna be smeared by his filth.’_ ** every disturbed feeling linked to the object crashes in a wave unto him, engulfing his whole body, pushing him against the rocky sand, scratching his knees, his chest, his face, even his back doesn’t get spared, when the remains of the current retire once more and he’s forcibly lured towards the ocean, vast, dark, scary, more a puddle of petroleum than water, it’s sticky, thick, and it’s pulling his ankles to the bottom, winning the fight between his shaky bubbly breaths. drowning tastes bitter, like getting praised for being the precocious gifted second-born son, for showing sheer talent earlier than anyone ever did, but spending all of the childhood years wetting the bed, crying, alone, incapable of controlling nothing but mere strands of his power, aching because everything, _everything_ is always too much and the overwhelmingness never halts a second in his head; clothes, sheets, forks, the touch of his own mother too, nothing seems to be devoid of unpleasantness, he’s barely seven and yet the unwilling witness of all the grime concealed in the house’s residents’ hearts. and then it tastes like the countless hours at the crematorium to train on dead carcasses, a place where no nine years old should be, nose numb to the scent of charred ashes mixed with the faint remains of humid rain, coming out of the furnace swirling in the air. and then the flavour melts into his first quiet panic attack, few weeks after their fourteenth birthday, when connor doesn’t show any trace of the ‘gift’ and suspects arise, and he gets told he’s an only child starting today, that he’ll be the one keeping the family on the path given by the spirits, that connor’s a good-for-nothing who couldn’t manage not having his potential absorbed in the womb by his younger brother, but of course, he’s partly at fault, nines is perfect, that’s the outcome everyone should have predicted in any case. it’s disgusting, how the pieces fall into place: how he’s always been oversensitive and how connor’s always been overnormal. and then, and then, then it’s only an amaretto’s blur of memories: conflicting emotions, worse and worse nights, lonely lunches, solitary lessons and one-person hours of exercises, which, he hoped, when connor had developed his curse, would have been more bearable. two in distress makes sorrow less? he doesn’t think his ache lessened, instead it grew, along with them, relentlessly, unmercifully, until it exploded around sixteen or more. connor snapped. perhaps the first and last time he got angry with him, tired of being rejected over and over, even by the sole relative he still wanted to be loved by, and shouted, yelled that he was glad to be like everyone else, rather than having things ruling his life, that he was glad his parents didn’t love him, rather than to have to deal with their fake appreciation, that he was glad he was the outcast, rather than having to nick himself in pieces to fit the paper-cut role of the neat little prince, and that he was glad that nines forced himself to self-isolation, rather than to attempt mending their relationship because, ironically, it was more balanced when they hated each other. it was what they all set them from the start anyway, right? for hate to put its root in both. and connor realizes it the moment his lips close, that they’re playing someone else’s game, abiding by foreign rules, and that this, _this_ , is not what they want at all. he realizes it the moment it takes for the waves of his feelings to reach his brother, and nines’ features coat themselves in unmeant tears. a mix of regret and guilt breaks into him, and nines, petrified, lets connor communicate it through an apologetic hug. they cry, like this, mute, sewing up the fine line connecting them that bastardly resists being severed. he thought the other hated him, but **_‘he’s wrong.’_ ** drowning’s sugarless but there’s an aftertaste of sweetness in his ring, acting as a lighthouse, signaling for a hand that grabs him mid-death, someone rescuing him, gripping his wrist and pulling with the same force he was being suffocated with. it’s connor. his light in the darkness. it’s always connor. his connor. usually placing his palm against his cheek, smiling, devoting his stream of consciousness to a more relaxed riverbed, canalising positive as the dam to RK900’s negative by thinking of love, their love. them. them frolicking in, what, back then, seemed, the mansion’s endless yard: scampering, playing tag, rolling in the grass, hiding behind the bark of the red maples and oaks. them in bed, whispering feverishly secret intimate things when they both came down with the flu, making a fuss when having to take medicines. them going in and out the kitchen, miserably trying to corrupt the maids to get a bigger slice of cake for the usual afternoon snack. them and the furtive complicit glances stolen during private lessons. them, connor waiting outside, playing with the puddles, searching for frogs in the bushes, dirtying his legs up until his shorts could permit it, smiling at nines’ indecipherable face and telling him that the smell of the smoke coming out of the graveyard’s chimney is nice. them, nines confessing connor that he doesn’t want to be addressed by his name, the same of his grandfather, anymore, that he much prefers the simple moniker derived by being the eighth and ninth of the generation, that he wants connor to only call him something that unites them rather than divide. them, parallel lines, growing up in their own different way, but still, resembling one another, neither of the duo straying too far off the other. them, distant. them, close again. them, too close for comfort. them, acknowledging the presence of a morbidness codependency that shouldn’t be there, not even between brothers. them, forgiving themselves. them, acting on it. them, kissing for the first time. them and the cascade of unfiltered clarity that washed his crown when nines felt inside connor for the first time. them, uniquely, forever, them. **_‘he’s barely worthy of being killed.’_ ** in a fraction of a second the glassy panorama shatters and he’s forced outside. the recoil so strong he awkwardly stumbles, about to collapse, but his back is promptly supported by connor’s grasp under his armpits, as if foreseeing it. “hey,” it’s a soft whisper, motherly “i’ve got you. don’t worry.” connor brushes his mouth against nines’ slightly sweaty forehead, near their identical birthmark on the temple “i told you i’d be there with you, didn’t i?” helped to his feet nines is free to heave a sigh: relieved, tired, still faintly terrified, but most of all loved. he hums in agreement and nods as to reinforce the statement of his wellbeing. the lieutenant in the room seems a tad uncomfortable, as if seeing something he shouldn’t have. nines gives him a fleeting glare while straightening the creases on his coat “the hatred bound to this crime is too strong for me to see past the curtain. it’s personal, though. and it’s a woman, that much i can tell.” they leave.

the ride home is tranquil. nines leaning on connor’s shoulder, exhausted, on the verge of an earned nap. “if you eat something sweet you’ll feel better” connor comments, fingertips absentmindedly threading through tousled akin burnt caramel hair “mh.” is the reply, before a long pause that follows “he.... did something horrible.” nines’ lids close, basking in the contact that provides him the indispensable peace “he had it coming.” they rarely speak about work, except for the casual loathing, but he can’t contain the urge of venting how this case wore him out “maybe– maybe i don’t want them to catch this one, you know? i think she deserved it, her closure.” a stifled yawn “i truly think she does, connor.” he’d keep saying how, maybe, they deserve one too, their closure. but he’s sure connor would joke about this being an implicit interest check about killing their parents. and he would be too weary to know what to answer.  
“good for her. i don’t care.” he declares, unwrapping a tiny round white candy and pushing it past his lips. nines is ready to jestily retort something along the lines of him breaking the solemnity of his speech but connor, of other ideas, raises his chin and aborts his fake indignation with a kiss.


End file.
